Chapter 1

QUIN’S POV

The glass-walled conference room on the thirty-fifth floor of Frederick’s Enterprise was built to perfect precision. Sunlight poured through the windows, reflecting off the polished mahogany and casting a blinding light over every seat at the table.

I briskly walked into my boss's office, my heels clicking with every step I took. “The meeting will commence in ten minutes' time,” I announced. He only raised his head and acknowledged me with a nod, his expression stoic.

Equipped with a file containing the company's important documents and some writing materials, I headed back to the conference room for the meeting.

To the six members surrounding the table, I was just the efficient secretary, the silent force behind the most powerful man in the city.

I stood two steps behind Damon Frederick’s shoulder, smartly dressed in a pencil skirt, an immaculate white shirt, and heels. I held my tablet securely to my chest, my face a mask of pure and professional decorum.

I noted every movement in the room: the crisp crinkling of documents, the uneasy shifting of the financial advisors, and the intimidating stillness of the man I worked for.

“The R5 projections are non-negotiable,” Damon said. His voice was crisp and cold. So icily cold that it could frost the glass behind him. His voice was low; he didn't need to raise it. When he spoke, everyone in the room held their breath. “If the holding yields are not met by Friday, I will replace the entire team with competent individuals. Is that clear?”

“Damon, be equitable,” his father, Martins, grunted from his chair, leaning forward, his eyes narrowed. “The Smith family control over forty percent of the regional logistics infrastructure. A public engagement between you and Kimberly Smith before the year ends would secure the board's vote of approval without a single vocal opposition.”

An overwhelming silence engulfed the board room.

I felt a wave of dizziness hit me, I held onto my tablet so I wouldn't lose balance and fall. My face maintained a blank expression, I couldn't risk a reaction. “An engagement? Kimberly Smith?”

“The supervisory reviews—” Martins began.

“Are being reviewed,” Damon chimed in quickly, leaning back in his leather chair. He held out his hand behind him without turning back. “Quin, the audit reports.”

“Right here, Mr. Damon,” I responded immediately. My voice was formal, calm, and work-coded. I stepped forward and placed the sleek brown file into his outstretched palm.

For a fraction of a second, my heartbeat stopped as his fingers brushed against mine.

It wasn't just a casual touch. As his fingertips met mine, my heart violently tugged against my ribcage. But my face maintained a blank expression.

Damon flipped through the pages, lingering for a little while on the last page. His posture rigid, I couldn't pinpoint if he felt the same electrifying sensation I felt when our fingers touched.

“As you can see on the last page,” Damon continued, his voice crisp and steady, “the audit report as well as the compliance checks are already cleared.”

I stepped back, almost blending into his shadow, my fingers digging into the shell of my tablet, my expression totally poker-faced. We were professionals at this game. To the world, we were the symbiotic pair in the corporate world: the ruthless CEO and his brilliant, efficient secretary. There was no chemistry in public between us. No one suspected a thing.

By seven-thirty, I got home. I freshened up and walked into my closet to pick an outfit. I picked out a hip-length sleeveless red gown with glitters, golden stiletto heels, and the gold jewelry Damon gifted me. I curled my hair and styled it into a messy bun. I almost choked as I sprayed my whole body with my perfume, applying a generous amount to my neck—his favorite spot to bury his face in. By nine o'clock, I was ascending toward the restricted penthouse level of one of the city's most exclusive residential towers.

The moment the heavy doors of the elevator closed behind me, I took a deep breath, my head held high as I walked into the living space of the penthouse.

Damon sat on an armchair, loosening his black silk tie with one hand. His shirt had two buttons already undone. I swallowed hard, subconsciously fixing my hair.

He stood up and handed me a glass of wine. “Drink up,” he whispered into my ear, his breath hotly fanning my neck. Goosebumps formed on my skin. Smiling nervously, I took a sip of the wine.

As I savored the taste of the wine, he suddenly turned, grabbed my waist, and slammed me gently but firmly against the wall. I gasped, my lips slightly apart, the wine glass clanging as it fell onto the floor.

“Do you know how sexy you look in that little red dress?” Damon growled low in his throat.

Before I could say a word, his lips engulfed mine with a possessive hunger that stripped air from my lungs.

Soon my strict boss, who barely acknowledged my presence at work, had my wrists pinned above my head on his bed.

Inside these walls, there was no empire, no public scrutiny, and no spreadsheet. Just his fingers tracing the contours of my body, sparking a dangerous heat we thought we had under control.

I shut my eyes, fully immersed in the wave of pleasure he aroused in me.

“Quin, look at me,” he spoke in a soft tone, his dark eyes looking into mine with so much intensity that it made my body tremble. With each thrust, my body quivered, sending a steamy wave of passion through me.

“Tell me, who do you belong to?” he commanded, his voice a low whisper.

“I… I belong to you, Damon,” I moaned as his thrusts intensified. I hated how much control he had over me, and how true those words felt to me.

He smiled, a satisfied curve on his lips. “Yes, you are mine,” he growled, before sweeping me into another wave of surging pleasure that left us both breathless, interlaced together in multiple rounds of desire.

It was past midnight; the penthouse was quiet. I could see the city lights twinkling like diamonds through the bedroom windows.

Damon was fast asleep beside me, his warm arm wrapped securely around my waist. Even in his sleep, his possessiveness was loud, evident in how tight his grip on me was.

I lay awake in the dimly lit room, listening to the rhythmic tick of the clock. The rules that guarded our relationship replayed in my head, violently competing with the haunting memory of his father's words in the boardroom meeting: A public engagement between you and Kimberly Smith before the year ends….

I looked at his face as he slept, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with his breathing. I reached out, my fingers hovering above his face, and touched his cheek. He stirred but didn't wake up, his grip around my waist tightening.

I buried my face into the crook of his neck, pulling the sheets up to my chest as the truth hit me. A sharp pang of anguish crushed my soul; I swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump in my throat.

I was breaking the rule—a rule I had abided by for 11 months.

I was falling in love with my boss, the same man who was about to be forced into an engagement with another woman.